Page 55 of Crown of Thorns

The lie sat light on his tongue. He wouldn't cooperate. He'd extract information, identify threats, and handle them in ways the Gardaí could never know about.

"How many inside?" Dec asked.

"Forty-two on final count. Twenty-three injured, one critical." Lorcan's jaw tightened. "Find out who lit it."

Dec nodded and moved. Other men peeled away in different directions. They moved like cells responding to a signal—no visible commands, just understanding. I watched Lorcan organize the chaos the way a conductor shaped sound. Point. Gesture. A single word. And the world bent.

A young man staggered past me with a burned arm, and I caught him.

"Sit," I told him. I tore open his sleeve. The burn was red and blistering, covering the upper third of his forearm. Not life-threatening, but it would scar badly without proper care. "When did you get burned?"

"Five minutes. Maybe ten." He was shaking.

"You're in shock." I found Siobhan still sitting where I'd left her. "Can you watch him? Make sure he stays sitting, keeps his arm elevated. Don't let him look at the burn."

She nodded. She was steadier now. The shock was converting to purpose. I moved through the crowd, cataloging injuries with the same detachment I brought to examining a horse's wound. Muscle memory. Crisis voice. Became what was needed.

Lorcan appeared beside me, and I didn't startle. I knew his presence the way I knew my own heartbeat now.

"You're hurt," he said.

I looked down. There was blood on my hands. Not mine—from the burned man, I thought, mixed with someone's who had a head wound. I wiped it on my jacket absently.

"I'm fine." I pulled a clean tissue from my pocket and applied pressure to a woman's cut forehead. "How bad?"

"Bad enough." His voice was low, meant only for me. "You're going home. Now."

I looked at him. Really looked. The cold in his face was so complete it was almost beautiful—like looking at winter itself. This was what he looked like when he was fully in his role. This was the operative. The heir who was trained from birth to hold ground and never, ever break.

"No," I said.

He turned to me fully. His eyes were empty. Dangerous. "Renny—"

"I'm staying until I've checked every injured person in a one-block radius. Then I'll go home." I turned back to the woman's forehead. "You have work. I have work. We're both doing it."

For a moment, I thought he'd override me. I could feel the edge of his power, the absolute certainty that he could simply remove me from this space and I'd have no recourse. That was what he'd been raised to believe—that his will shaped reality, that protection meant control.

Then something shifted in his face. Not softness. Never that. But recognition. I wasn't panicking. I wasn't getting in the way. I wasn't demanding to be saved.

I was capable.

He nodded once and walked away.

I didn't see him again that night. I worked through the shock and the aftermath, directing people, assessing injuries, making notes for the paramedics about what I'd already treated. The Gardaí took my statement. They were polite and thorough and didn't quite look at me when they asked what my relationship was to the Gallaghers. I told them I was married to Lorcan and left it at that.

By the time I left Baggot Street, full dark had fallen. The pub was cordoned off. The injured had been transported. The concerned had drifted away. Only the machinery of Lorcan's retribution remained, grinding quietly in the shadows.

I walked home on streets that smelled like smoke and burnt sugar.

The walk took forty minutes. My feet moved mechanically. Around me, Dublin went about its business. A couple argued outside a wine bar. A delivery driver cursed at traffic. An old man walked a terrier. The normal world didn't pause for explosions. The normal world simply moved around the wound and pretended the bleeding wasn't happening.

I used to live in the normal world.

I remembered what it was like to be shocked by violence. I remembered when blood was an emergency instead of just something that happened. I remembered when my biggest concern was a colt with a twisted hoof or a mare having trouble foaling. Those problems had solutions. Clear cause and effect. Anatomy and physics.

This world didn't work that way.

This world worked on decisions made by men who looked like Lorcan. Decisions that reshaped reality through choice and consequence. Decisions that made my hands steady when they should have been shaking. That made me walk toward explosions instead of away from them. That made me understand that I was wrong about what I was capable of.